


Lateral Schism

by peacensafety



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Amnesia, Creature!, F/F, F/M, FBI, Historical References, Jennifer Blake is the Darach, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, Other, Past Stiles Stilinski/Original Character(s), Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5062522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacensafety/pseuds/peacensafety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles can't remember anything before that warehouse in Memphis, Tennessee. He only knows his name from a paper written on the male circumcision. It got an A, and he supposes that says something good about who he used to be.  He grew up in a great foster home with a bunch of magical people, got married, had some kids, did his service to his country, got divorced, and now works for the FBI. Except now his latest case takes him to some tiny little nowhere place called Beacon Hills,  California. There's a man with a familiar last name, lots of death, and the thing his family hates the most: God damn werewolves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Three years of writer's block, and this is what came out of my head in the past two days.

“Stilinski, wheels up in thirty,” Supervisory Special Agent Hatfield knocked on Stiles’s office door. Hatfield glanced around at the pictures strewn haphazardly around the office and stifled a quick shudder, “Apparently we need you on this one.”

Stiles grabbed his ‘go-bag’ and followed the BAU agent out of his basement office. He was very rarely called in by the department that handled criminal profiling for the purpose of catching serial killers and kidnappers, so his interest was piqued, to say the least. “What’s the case?”

Hatfield glared at him for asking questions. “Six murders, all within the same county lines. We can’t find a connection between the vics, but boss-man says they seem ritualistic. Your type ritualistic, not our usual rituals.”

Stiles nodded, their usual ritualistic killers involved someone cutting words into the victim’s skin or tying them up using a certain knot or dressing men in women’s underwear. “Can I get a hold of any crime scene photos?”

“You’ll be given a tablet with all the pertinent information downloaded when we arrive at the plane,” Hatfield whirled around in the hallway which would lead them to the hangar at Quantico. “You’d better not declare this your jurisdiction, Stilinski, I heard you got the entire Organized Crime unit thrown off the case in New Orleans, and they had worked that one for three years.”

Stiles tried not to roll his eyes, but it took massive amounts of self control. “I suppose you think OC could have handled vampiric court negotiations better than I can? You know I saved everyone in that team from dying or becoming enthralled. You ever wonder how dangerous an agent could be enthralled? The threat that would pose to national security?”

Hatfield snorted, having clearly dismissed the idea that vampires could threaten the federal government.

Stiles dropped eye contact , choosing instead to drop the conversation. The President chose not to ignore the Supernatural threat to National Security, and neither had any other president since Kennedy. Well, more specifically Kennedy and his First Witch of the United States, Marilyn Monroe. It wasn’t until Bush, Sr. had sworn in that both the FBI and the CIA had inherited Supernatural Supervisory Special Agents, although his idiot son, or more accurately his idiot son’s Vice President Cheney, had carved those departments down to one person each. To make matters worse, the current First Witch was Stiles’s foster father, and the CIA agent in charge was his foster sister. Nothing like a good dose of nepotism in order to make career driven alpha personalities take a person seriously. It also didn’t help the deeply suspicious personalities of FBI and CIA agents when Stiles, Wink, and their foster father Mr. Kwon were the most powerful witches at all the scenes they had showed up at.

Nothing like excellence to become a suspect in the mind of the federal government. 

Stiles sat on a padded bench in the passenger area of the private jet the BAU commandeered often. The tech expert handed him a tablet and quickly gave him the code to unlock it as the rest of the team settled in to the cabin. Stiles braced himself for his ears to pop while the jet took off, knowing the landing would be so much worse. 

“Six homicides in Beacon Hills, California over the past two weeks. Local law enforcement is not happy this has become a federal case, so we’re not expecting this to be an easy ride. Agent McCall, our contact from White Collar crimes, has agreed to help out with the town as it is his home town and he has advised us we would probably have little to no help from the local law enforcement,” Supervisory Special Agent Caleb explained the situation. 

“The six victims were all tied to trees,” this announcement was explained by the tech expert, who kept glancing at Stiles to see how he would react to the images that came up on his tablet, “With their hands tied behind with their own intestines. The blood splatter would indicate this was done before the victims died. It appears cause of death would be a blow to both temples, using some sort of blunt tool, possibly a rock. Also notable on each victim is a fine garrotte line around the neck, caused by something we assume was coated in mistletoe. Which is why Special Agent Stilinski was called in last minute.”

Stiles was a little confused as to why the tech expert kept staring at him, but he was starting to hope the man wasn’t one of his crazy fans. Those people were even worse than people like Agent Hatfield, who hated him for no reason. Stiles also hated being loved because someone thought he was Harry Potter. 

Of course, there was always another explanation for his behavior. “Wink gave you my case as introduction to the Supernatural Department, didn’t she?” Stiles blurted out. 

The tech had the curteousy to look abashed. “You honestly don’t have any memories before you were found in that warehouse in Memphis?”

Stiles sighed. 

“She didn’t tell us about the Supernatural at all. There were three ways to pass that test: You had to ask for help, you could say it was impossible, or you could conclude it was magic. I was the only one who concluded it was magic, but I didn’t say anything for three weeks because I thought it was crazy. But my mom is Pennsylvania Dutch and she still keeps a bowl of salt next to the stove, so I figured why not?”

Stiles couldn’t help but smile. “That’s a more Eastern European practice, but I’m sure she’s safe from Baba Yaga all the same. The traditions kind of get screwed up in America.”

“Baba Yaga is real?” Hatfield asked, unable to keep the horror out of his voice. 

“I know her grandson better than her, but he’s practicing law more than magic these days so he’s not as intimidating. Although lawyers in Mississippi are intimidating in their own right,” Stiles smiled at the thought of his foster brother, Jaeson. 

“So you really don’t remember anything before the warehouse?” Supervisory Special Agent Caleb asked. 

“No, they sent Wink in because it was weird and I kept setting a ring of flame around myself when any of the local law enforcement tried to get too close. Wink was only seventeen at the time, but she was still the most powerful witch in Memphis, and local law enforcement knew about her because her father was formerly in charge of the local branch of the Memphis Supernatural Division of the MPD, before the funding was cut by the new State administration. It’s hard to keep divisions running with the new transparency movement on taxpayer money when you can’t tell the general population about how that money is being spent, especially in areas where people never see magic or supernatural people.”

Hatfield snorted, “Kind of hard to believe in something that doesn’t exist, your little origin story notwithstanding. How many Supernatural things really exist anyway?”

“Rough count approximately one half of one percent of the general population of the planet,” said one of the agents Stiles hadn’t been introduced to. 

Supervisory Special Agent Caleb interrupted at this point, “Does this case look like something you could help with?”

“The method of the murders would be familiar to anyone who has read a textbook on Druidic practices from the general region of the United Kingdom from the time of Roman conquest until roughly the 12th Century CE. It doesn’t clearly indicate a magic user. Assuming that a practitioner of Druidic arts did perform this, that would indicate we are dealing with a Darach, or a dark druid, who has performed a ceremony that is forbidden and is punishable by a final death: being stripped of their magic and then burned at the stake. If it is a Darach, you can expect nine more murders, as this is a prelude to a very powerful spell.”

“A spell for what?” The agent who had given the statistic on the Supernatural asked, seemingly fascinated.

“It could be a power grab, to become more magic on a permanent basis. You could use something like this to acquire powers from another Supernatural creature, say you wanted the powers of a gin to make all your wishes come true but didn’t want to pay the price of eternal imprisonment.” Stiles scratched his head. “It could also be enough power to do a mass manipulation spell, to make the caster perceived as beautiful or for everyone within a limited radius believe they had been voted in as Mayor, but not enough for people to think that something like the caster is governor. They could be doing something like this to cover up a crime, too. If it is something like that, I can cast a spell to give everyone clear sight, which would allow everyone to see past any spell.”

“You stay out of my head!” Hatfield immediately demanded.

The statistician spoke up. “Although Hatfield is apparently terrified of something he doesn’t believe in, I think we should hold off on a spell for as long as possible. We would end up questioning all of our observations as we are not accustomed to magic.”

Stiles wanted to protest the spell would prevent magical influence, but decided that logical magic was not going to be the hill he chose to die on. Besides, it was possible that if he was actually up against a Darach, his magic wouldn’t be strong enough to counter their spells anyway. Dark magic was always stronger, because white witches weren’t willing to grab for power the way dark witches were. There were a few white spells which were obscenely powerful, but Stiles didn’t know of many situations where people would welcome 50 years of fertility or perfect luck or the love of a deity. That was just stuff he didn’t want to mess around with, as nothing there would end up well.

The jet had clearance to land in the Beacon County Regional Airport, and the agents were given two plain black SUVs as was protocol. It wasn’t long before they arrived at the county seat, and they parked outside the police station. 

There was little fanfare as the receptionist showed them to the room that was already set up with clear boards papered with more detailed information on the case than had been provided to them on their tablets, and Stiles wasted no time taking pictures and saving them to his case files. Most of the other agents were doing the same when the Sheriff walked in. He looked particularly grouchy. 

“I’m not thrilled to have you here,” he said. “This is not a case the Feds are prepared to deal with. You won’t be doing anything but get in the way of our investigation.”

Supervisory Special Agent Caleb held out his hand, but pulled it away when the Sheriff refused to shake it. “Sir, we have no plans to impede this investigation. We are only here to deliver a profile of the perpetrator of these crimes. We have pulled this team together based on other similar crimes, and we plan on assisting you in any way possible.”

The Sheriff ran a hand through his graying light brown hair in a gesture that indicated tiredness or frustration, but his blue eyes held a clearly defiant spark. “I seriously doubt that any of your expertise will be helpful in this investigation.”

He stopped to glare at Stiles, who was studying the pictures of the bodies. “What could you possibly tell me that I wouldn’t have been able to discern for myself from those photos?”

“It depends,” Stiles said, “Is there any way you could tell me if all the trees the victims were tied to were oak or ash?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Hatfield complained. Stiles ignored him, knowing that if the Sheriff was entirely ignorant of the Supernatural he would think the FBI to be crazy, but if there was a pattern than it would determine the nature of the spell being cast.

“We don’t currently have that information,” the Sheriff stated, but his eyebrow quirked in a way that Stiles knew a random officer would soon be sent to collect that information. It also let Stiles know that the Sheriff was somewhat aware of the Supernatural, and he knew that he wasn’t the only Agent who had caught on to that interesting little fact. 

“I’m sorry Sheriff, we might have started out under some wrong assumptions,” Supervisory Special Agent Caleb said, “let’s start over with how we think we could be of use to you. I’m in charge of my regular group from the Behavioral Analysis Unit, we specialize in serial killers like your county has now. Special Agent Hatfield is on loan from the Organized Crime Division, and Special Agent Stilinski here is on loan from the Supernatural Investigations Unit.”

The Sheriff’s eyebrows both went up at that. “I was not aware the FBI had a Supernatural Investigations Unit. Or that someone with such an unusual name would be on it.”

“So do you think we would be of more use now?” Caleb asked. 

“Let me introduce myself,” the Sheriff said, not taking his eyes off of Stiles, “and then you tell me. I’m Sheriff John Stilinski, and Beacon Hills is an unofficial sanctuary for Supernatural people, and as long as you are not here to catalog my people or endanger them in any way, I could be more amenable to your presence.”

Stiles stared back at the first person he had ever met who shared his last name. He was barely listening to the part where the Supernatural was a welcome addition to the town’s make up, because he was busy searching for any resemblance to himself in the Sheriff’s face. 

Caleb nodded his head then, smiling. “We appreciate the need for anonymity among your special residents. This has been a policy with the FBI since one of your kind decided to assist one of us back in the early 60s. The position within the FBI has always been held by a person tethered to the Supernatural community, and it is rare that we interfere in Supernatural business. However, a body count of six, with a potential body count of 15, would draw more attention by outsiders if there was no FBI presence. This could be dangerous to the community. I am more than willing to withdraw the rest of my team, who have admittedly never worked a case like this, if you believe that Stilinski’s presence alone is adequate; however, I believe this would be an opportunity for my team to get experience in a field that Stilinski himself has sole custody.”

“There are those in town who wouldn’t feel comfortable with the federal government poking through the town,” Stilinski admitted. “I personally wouldn’t mind having a few more experienced eyes on the case, but you have a large team, and I would appreciate a smaller group to contend with. I’m not even sure how organized crime would be able to contribute to this.”

Stiles took that question. “Until the government says differently, everyone born within the United States is a citizen. All citizens are bound by law to the Constitution. Because of the secretive nature of the community I specialize in, many times people will take it upon themselves to perform vigilante justice. This is unconstitutional, as every citizen is accorded a trial by the Constitution. Beyond that, there are times when Supernatural people will perform illegal actions in groups, usually designated by appellations such as coven, pack, seethe, or the like. That is when I often call in a member from organized crime to bounce ideas off of.” Stiles continued to stare at the pictures of the victims. “That won’t be necessary in this particular case though.”

“What? Why is that?” Hatfield complained. 

“The Unnamed Subject is working alone,” the statistics guy Stiles still didn’t have the name of said. “The bodies haven’t been moved, the method of torture and murder are eerily exactly the same, down to the knife wounds and the knots the intestines are tied into.” 

“A smaller group then?” SSA Caleb asked. 

Stiles and the Sheriff nodded just as Stiles’s phone started ringing. “Caleb, I’m declaring this my case. You, statistics guy, and one other person can stay, but not Hatfield. His attitude could start a catastrophe. Sheriff, could I use your office? One of my kids is calling.”

This announcement was met with mixed reactions, but Stiles knew he was sent on this case because he did have the power to dismiss anyone he wanted or to take lead. The Sheriff showed Stiles to his office, and left him as soon as he answered his phone. “Nascha, my favorite step-daughter, how are you?”

“Your son just took my $20 dollar lipstick to use as war-paint so he would let the stupid Tyrannosaurus Rex doll he won on his field trip to Rapid City know that he wasn’t going to put up with his carnivorous ways,” Nascha was never really one for greetings. 

Stiles bit back a groan. “How badly did your mom freak out?”

“Mary Junior said fuck, and now your daughter doesn’t know how to say any other word,” Nascha was going through a phase where she addressed adults by their first names, regardless of their relationship to her. She also refused to acknowledge Stiles’s twins as her siblings. On top of that, Stiles was secretly afraid he had lost all power over her when she realized he wasn’t good at the punishment aspect of parenting and completely quit trying to hide anything from him at all.

“Let me speak with your mother,” Stiles said, rubbing a hand through his hair. 

“Mary Junior!” Nascha screamed her mother’s white name. 

Stiles wished that Nascha would move the phone away from her mouth when she screamed.

Mary Junior’s birth name was Men Are Afraid of Her. She was named after the only child of Crazy Horse, a member of her band of Oglala Lakota. Mary Junior was the daughter of Mary Senior, an old girlfriend of Stiles’s foster father’s cousin. She was kind of a surprise to both her father and his boyfriend when she moved in with them for one summer when Mary Senior went on a tour of Europe with her girlfriend. 

Stiles fell in love with the Native girl, and they were surprised with pregnancy at the end of the summer, immediately married, had twins in the spring, and then Mary Junior took all the kids and went back to her Reservation in South Dakota. 

They never hated each other, they were just in their twenties and stupid. Their relationship was friendly and respectful, Stiles went to the military, served his four years, and spent the last five as an Agent for the FBI. Mary Junior was a Tribal Council member, worked with Native youth and tribal drug rehabilitation centers, and thinking about running for chief later in life. 

Stiles often got summer custody and every other Christmas, and for some reason Nascha came along for his kids, too. He found it easier to just not ask questions where his children were involved, Mary Junior did a good job, they were mostly clean, and they all made fantastic grades. They were also slightly Supernatural creatures, but Mary Junior lived near a Medicine Man who helped them with their slight thunderbird tendencies. 

“Little Owl Girl is exaggerating,” Mary Junior said with no greetings. Maybe Stiles knew where his step-daughter got her tendencies. 

“She hates it when you translate her name,” Stiles said.

“She’s hanging out with the wrong kids. They think an Indian name will protect them from white culture or something. I keep telling her better she stop watching all that TV junk if she wants to stay Indian. Oh, and I’m apparently wrong about Indian, it’s now NDN, three letters, all capital.”

Stiles laughed. “I’m on a case, light of my life. Do you need me to talk to the twins?”

“I’ve got Nikolai scrubbing his ‘war paint’ out of the carpet, where he was attacked by his stuffed animal, and I’m ignoring Tesla until she says something that doesn’t sound like ‘fuck.’ Where is your case?” 

“You know I can’t say…”

“Your children are Thunderbirds. You think it will take them long to find you? At least let me know where they will be if I find they are missing and I panic over it.”

Stiles sighed. “Little town in California. Called Beacon Hills.”

“Shungmanitou territory,” Mary Junior immediately said.

“Damn it,” Stiles cursed. “Werewolves.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and support everyone! I really appreciate it and I love you all!

Breakfast the next day was diner food, which Stiles reminded himself he used to adore. Now everything tasted like shit, which he supposed was what happened when a person got older. Grease deep fried in grease without the added benefit of bread crumbs and butter. What he wouldn’t give for his tiny kitchenette in his studio apartment in DC.

SSA Caleb, the statistician guy who was introduced as Donavon , and the computer guy named Ladarius joined him to pick at their food half-heartedly before returning to the Sheriff’s station to figure out a plan and decide who to interview. 

The officers at the station were much more casual when they got there. Some of them stopped by to say hello while they sat down to come up with people to interview, families of the victims and those who worked at companies near the sites where the bodies were found. 

“I’ve noticed a distinct pattern centered around the local high school,” Donavon said, “which would indicate the Unsub would find that particular area a comfort zone. I think the Unsub is connected to the school somehow.”

Stiles nodded. “Let’s get a list of faculty and janitorial and cross reference known associates and witnesses. We’ll look for names that pop up repeatedly.”

“If this Unsub is a Darach, don’t you think there’d be a list of magical practitioners we could use to narrow the search?” Donavon asked. 

“Profiling,” Ladarius complained. 

“Also worthless. A black magic user isn’t going to announce their presence. Too many people, especially Supernatural people, would immediately kill a black magic user. This Unsub will do everything within their power to appear completely normal. They might even pretend to not have any magical ability. It wouldn’t be surprising to find that they have known associates within the Supernatural community though, because they wouldn’t be able to stay away from it,” Stiles stated. 

“You said you knew Baba Yaga though. I thought she was a well known black magic user, and she’s not dead.”

“She has amnesty, she helps our troops out during major martial altercations starting since WWII, because she didn’t like Hitler trying to steal some fabrigee egg of hers, and now she has an American grandchild and has quit the human sacrifice portion of her practice in order to be close to him. Besides, who’s going to take on Baba Yaga?” Stiles asked. 

“She still is a murderer,” Caleb complained. 

“Hasn’t killed anyone in over a hundred years. When the Old Ones change after hundreds of years, the law has to bend to accommodate them. If we have too many problems with this Darach, I can always call her in for an assist if my foster father or sister are too busy. It is highly likely this Darach is more powerful than I am. I’m only a witch.”

The rest of the agents stilled at his admission. “Will you be able to figure out if a suspect we’re talking to is Supernatural?” Caleb asked. 

“Yes, but I won’t tell you unless I think it’s pertinent information about the case,” Stiles said. 

“Have we talked to anyone Supernatural already?” Donavon asked, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. 

Stiles smiled. “You’ve talked to a werewolf and a kitsune this morning,” he took some pity on the excited agent.

“That’s pretty impressive, knowing what someone is by looking at them,” the Sheriff said from the doorway. “I think it would make it hard to make an unbiased decision at times.”

“It’s true, but that’s why anyone I arrest gets a fair trial of their peers,” Stiles quickly said. “If I make too many mistakes on the field, I get called in for questioning just like any other agent. The FBI is not without checks and balances, sir.”

Sheriff Stilinski nodded. “I wanted to take you to meet someone. He was curious about what you said last night. He said to tell you he is a Druid? He thought that would be pertinent information if you suspect a Darach.”

“It definitely would. SSA Caleb, would you take Donavon and start interviews with the witnesses. Ladarius, I’d the you to come with me. I liked your comment on profiling, and I want you to observe the body language of a white magic user.”

“How do you know this person isn’t the Unsub?” Caleb asked. 

“If he declared he was a druid, it is not the federal government he would be answering to alone. The people he is responsible to are much scarier, and it also means I can check with them on his status. One just doesn’t declare themselves a druid unless one is very stupid. It takes sixteen years for the apprenticeship alone for that declaration.”

The team broke up and Stiles and Ladarius followed the Sheriff in their black SUV. They were a little surprised when they exited the vehicle in the parking lot of a veterinarian clinic. They followed the Sheriff into the lobby, where Stiles paused. “He’s got this thing surrounded in Rowan.”

“I do,” a black man came out from the back of the clinic. “I find it interesting you called it Rowan and not Mountain Ash. Who was your teacher?”

“Unimportant to this investigation,” Stiles quickly said. “We’re not a community that throws names around casually, are we?”

“Fair point. My name is Dr. Alan Deaton.”

Stiles knew it was probably a fake name. “Stiles Stilinski,” he offered his in return. 

“Unusual surname,” Deaton glanced at the Sheriff. 

“You wanted to talk to me?” Stiles ignored the observation. 

“The Sheriff mentioned you believe we have a Darach in our fine neighborhood. I wanted to know if there was anything I should do, for example call The Council of the Oak, in order to get things taken care of quickly.”

“If I find a Darach, which is still just a hypothesis at this point, and that person is an United States citizen, they are entitled to a trial by a jury of their peers. There are often members of The Council on the juries for those who have studied the Way of the Oak, but the point of the Office of the President’s Wizard is to treat our community with the same rights as any other citizen of the United States. If the person is not a citizen, I turn the case over to Wink Choi, our representative in the CIA.”

“I have heard rumors of your departments, but I didn’t think they were true. Interesting that your department is made entirely of one family,” Deaton didn’t sound pleased.

“My foster father was recruited out of law school, and our family is the most well known in America. We have the ability to protect ourselves and are quite invested in protecting the secretive nature of our own kind. The government thought it was logical to use my family, which has at least one representative from almost every type of Supernatural person in existence because of our policy of taking in children of our kind who have no other place to go.”

Deaton nodded. “Not werewolves, I have heard.”

Stiles nodded. “The Pack nature of that kind makes it rare they would need such accommodations.”

“This is primarily werewolf territory,” Deaton stated. 

“My ex-wife has informed me about this,” Stiles said. “Apparently it has been for three hundred years or so.”

“How did she get that information?” Deaton seemed worried. 

“She only works for her tribal government, no connection to the Feds. This is not information I will pass around, but you understand more now why my family is in the best position to do what they do?”

Deaton nodded, but he still frowned. “That information isn’t accessible outside of this town, we have very good people who protect that information on the Internet and…”

“My ex-wife’s people have an incredibly strong oral tradition that predates the arrival of white men to this country. They were aware of the arrival of the Hale Pack three hundred years ago, and they passed that information down. I could give you other examples of what they know, but I’m asking you to respect the need for secrecy as I have shown your local Pack over the years.”

“He’s telling the truth,” a slant jawed Hispanic man came out from the same room Deaton came from. Stiles could see a faint greenish aura around him, accompanied by the scent of petrichor, letting him know the man was a werewolf. “I’m Scott McCall. I’m one of the Beacon Hills Alphas.”

Stiles hated werewolves, but he tried not to let it show. He never could figure out why they gave him the shivers, so he braced himself for the usual response being in the same vicinity as one gave him. Nothing happened, and he was shocked to remember that nothing happened when he saw that werewolf waitress at the diner that morning, either. Maybe he was getting used to them.

“Stiles Stilinski,” Stiles said again, still weirded out that he was having absolutely no physical reaction to being in the same room as a werewolf. 

“I could take you around town…” Scott started to say.

“Isn’t our contact for Beacon Hills Rafael McCall?” Ladarius asked. 

Scott made a face. “My father remains ignorant of the things that happen here. Including the fact that his son was bit as a teenager.”

Stiles couldn’t stop himself. “How is he an FBI Agent, not knowing what his own son is?”

The Sheriff laughed out loud while Scott nodded his head, “I know, right?”

“To be fair, we all thought the test your sister gives at the Academy was hypothetical until we learned you have an office at Quantico,” Ladarius said. 

“You’re part of a FBI test?” Scott asked, impressed. Stiles thought this man would make a good friend, and Stiles wasn’t one to make friends outside of his family easily. 

“Long story. Who or what do you think I need to see?” Stiles deflected. 

“Yes, Scott, where do you think you need to take the Federal Agent in Beacon Hills, where most people live to avoid the Federal Government’s attention?” Deaton asked him.

Scott paused. “I’m not sure, but he feels okay. He doesn’t mean us any harm.”

Deaton looked at Stiles, “Did you cast a spell on him?” 

“No sir, you saw me meeting him and I’m only a witch,” Stiles said. 

“You would need spell components then,” Deaton stated. 

Stiles nodded.

“Interesting, but irrelevant. Scott isn’t known for his judgment, but he has become more discerning since his cubs were born. I would insist you take him to meet our other Alpha, before you take this man all around our fair town,” the Sheriff looked at Scott meaningfully. 

“But he doesn’t trust anybody!” Scott protested. 

“That would be the point, Scott.” Deaton said. 

“I am going to check in with our Mayor. I want to keep Parrish informed, and maybe run a few ideas past his wife. This situation is incredibly strange, and I want to see what she has… seen.” The guilty look the Sherriff sent Stiles kind of informed him about the fact that the Mayor’s wife was probably Supernatural of some sort, but he wouldn’t ask unless it was pertinent to the investigation. 

Maybe she was just a psychic human, anyway. 

Stiles and Ladarius followed Scott’s family sedan in their vehicle. “Is it normal for them to be so trusting with you?”

“Absolutely not,” Stiles stated. “This is a very strange case.”

“You think it has anything to do with you and the Sheriff having the same last name?” Ladarius rummaged around the center console for a piece of candy.

“It’s within the realm of possibility.”

“Maybe you two are related,” Ladarius casually mentioned. 

“Don’t you think he would have said something when he heard my last name?” Stiles asked. “Let’s concentrate on the case at hand, Agent,” Stiles commanded. 

It did bother him. He didn’t like feeling comfortable around werewolves, when he and werewolves had never gotten along. He didn’t know what to think about the Sheriff, although he liked the man. He didn’t like how this entire investigation was going, and while he respected having the BAU to consult with he wished he was driving alone so he could call one of his brothers or sisters to throw ideas around with. 

He kind of wanted to call his foster father too, but that man would show up within seconds if he thought Stiles was in the least bit sad or uncomfortable or confused, and this town really didn’t seem like it would appreciate having the President’s Wizard anywhere near them.

Stiles decided to take advantage of the fact he had a partner and bounce ideas off of him. “Did any of that seem strange to you?”

“Sir?” Ladarius asked. 

“Back at the vet clinic, did any of that seem strange?” 

“Can I be candid with you?” Ladarius seemed uncomfortable. 

“Of course,” Stiles said. 

“Up until yesterday, I was half sure you were just a story to tell new agents to keep them from making X-Files jokes all the time. Now today, I just met a werewolf, who is taking us to meet another werewolf, after we got done talking to a druid, and you just seriously said you were a witch in a room filled with grown men and no one laughed. I don’t know what I could say about anything being strange without quoting Will Smith in Men in Black and I just realized I’m the only black man in a monster movie. I’m probably going to die, and be the first one dead, so some white hero, probably you, can save the day. The fact that I have a white mother is not going to save me given the laws of movie magic. No, I honestly can’t say I noticed anything strange, but I’m seriously wondering if I drank something and am now hallucinating.”

“I think I’m going to put in an official request for you to be my partner,” Stiles said. 

“Why you gotta threaten me that way?” Ladarius complained as they pulled into a long driveway behind Scott. 

The house they were going to was large with a ridiculous amount of windows and toys strewn all over the front yard. Toys Stiles thought his twins would have coniptions over. Power Wheels and elaborate playhouses and sporting equipment and a sandbox with half of a castle being erected in the center. Being a Federal Agent paid well, but all of those things combined with the vehicles parked in the driveway, a Maybach and a Maserati, spoke of money Stiles couldn’t begin to dream of. 

“Damn, being a werewolf must pay good,” Ladarius said. 

“Being from an old family is what pays good,” Stiles said. 

Ladarius whistled, parked the SUV, and exited the vehicle with Stiles. 

“I didn’t know you didn’t know about the Supernatural, Agent,” Scott immediately apologized. “We have a much better initiation process that we use when we introduce people, normally.”

“How…” Ladarius started to ask.

“Werewolves hear a little differently than humans,” Stiles explained. “Werecreatures all do.”

Scott grinned again, and then walked right into the house. “Derek! I brought the FBI Agent John was telling us about!”

Stiles heard a mini stampede of footsteps down the stairs, and was greeted by four sets of multi-colored eyes, all of them green and blue and gold. The oldest child was a boy a little older than Nascha, and the youngest was the only girl who only had on one sock, braids that were falling out, and her shirt was on backwards. “A real FBI Agent?” the oldest boy said.

“Where’s your dad, Nathaniel?” Scott asked. 

Nathaniel crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re going to have to see some credentials.” The boy ignored Scott. 

“Derek?” Scott called as he started climbing the stairs. The little girl grabbed Scott’s hand and led him up the stairs, leaving Stiles and Ladarius with the boys. 

Stiles pulled out his badge and Ladarius followed suit, showing their badges to the boys. 

“That’s so cool,” the middle boy said, running his finger down the leather of the case.

The youngest buy, who was the same age as Stiles’s twins, nodded his head and stuck his thumb in his mouth. Stiles thought he was a little old for that action, but before he could say anything he felt the base of his neck next to his left shoulder twinge. He reached up to grab the spot, feeling like he had a sudden bruise there, when he saw Scott coming down the stairs with the most beautiful man he had ever seen. 

The man was in his early forties, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, and holding the diapered butt of a baby thrown across his naked shoulder. The baby was trying to pull the man’s ear off and cooing, but the man was staring at Stiles with the same eyes as all of his children. 

“Scott, why did you bring Federal Agents into my house where my children are?” Derek asked, not taking his eyes off of Stiles. His voice was gentler than Stiles expected, but he suspected the forced calm was to not startle the children who kept looking back and forth between their father and Stiles in confusion. 

“They’re okay, my wolf likes him,” Scott said. He looked so proud to be showing Stiles to Derek, but Derek was not impressed. 

Stiles immediately braced himself for an attack, because even he could tell that was the wrong thing to say, even though he couldn’t take his hand off of the throbbing spot between his neck and shoulder. He heard the soft click of Ladarius taking the snap off of the strap that secured his gun to his holster, and broke eye contact with Derek to put his hand on Ladarius’s right arm.

He ignored Derek’s immediate snarl to softly say, “There are children, and your bullets will only piss them off.”

Derek raised his eyebrows at Scott. “Your wolf is a moron.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, if y’all hadn't made any comments I wouldn’t have bothered to update. Depression is so hard to fight! 
> 
> Couple of things, just in case you're interested: A gumiho is the Korean version of a kitsune. They're almost always girls. I highly recommend you watch the Korean drama 'My Girlfriend is a Gumiho' if you ever need to pee yourself laughing. Next thing: Wakinyan aren't like werewolves. Werewolves are of the Earth, and related to men. Wakinyan are of the sky and loyal to the Great Creator. I kind of made them a little more human in this story... mostly because I'm pretty sure none of you know the stories anyway. Just don't go to pow-wow or wacipi thinking you know stuff, listen to the elders first and always and know that I just made stuff up.

Scott’s face was all wide goofy grin at Derek’s grouchy opinion. 

“What?” Derek asked. 

“You were mean to me in front of him,” Scott said. “You’re always polite in front of outsiders. That means your wolf likes him, too. I’m going to call a Pack meeting, because if both you and Erica like him, we need to figure out why that is .”

Stiles sighed. This is what sucked about being the only one in an entire department. “Ladarius, you’re going to have to go back to the station unless you want to start swearing additional oaths to me right now.”

Ladarius was confused for a minute, but he thought about what Stiles was saying. “You have additional secrecy oaths in your position, don’t you?” 

“Yes, and we swear them not only to the nation, but to the Office of the President’s Wizard. I can get him here in five minutes, but I would want to talk to you about the additional responsibilities included with those oaths. So if they are having a Pack meeting, you need to not know anything about it.” 

Ladarius nodded his head. He looked at Scott before leaving, “Will you give him a ride back, or do I need to come pick him up?”

Stiles was already on the phone with his sister to inform her he was meeting alone with a Pack of werewolves. If he had to do something this stupid, he really wanted to have back-up available at least. Wink was having a meeting with some dryads who wanted to immigrate from Athens to America, and she was negotiating terms with their local Green Man and a Green Man in America who would sponsor them, so unfortunately their foster sister Mika was the only one available for back-up. 

Stiles desperately hoped he wouldn’t have to call on the demon/fire elemental the Vatican had sent to live with their family. 

Ladarius took their SUV and left, and Stiles was stuck with Derek and the five mini-Dereks that were clinging to him while Scott was in the other room making phone calls. 

“So how did someone who knows so much about werewolves get a job with the FBI?” Derek asked. 

“My dad is the President’s Wizard. They were going to shut down my division, and they almost accomplished it when I retired from the Rangers, but dad offered to pay for one position in the FBI and one in the CIA with his own money. He feels quite strongly about justice being served to minority populations, and most times our population doesn’t have any other recourse. Situations like that are dangerous because they lead to organized crime and vigilantes, which is bad for obvious reasons.”

“I wasn’t aware the President had a wizard,” Derek sounded skeptical. 

“It’s not something we announce to everyone,” and Stiles realized that he was being a lot more candid than he normally was even capable of being. 

Derek seemed to catch on to that little fact too, but since Scott had called him out earlier on his own comfort levels with Stiles, Derek didn’t seem to want to pursue the subject any more. 

Stiles neck had stopped throbbing as badly, so he took his hand away from it as casually as he could. Derek stared at the newly naked skin, his nostrils flaring as he opened his mouth slightly to breathe in deeply. 

“So…” Derek seemed incredibly uncomfortable, and his children were clinging to him with their wide eyes fixed on Stiles. “What is your official title?”

“I work for the Department of Supernatural, my title is just Supervisory Special Agent Stilinski.”

“And your dad is just The President’s Wizard?” Derek asked. 

Stiles was on guard from telling Derek anything extra, fighting to describe how his family worked in tandem with the government, so he forced himself to simply nod his head instead of sharing all of the information he had learned over the past few decades about the strides the government was taking to keep their kind as safe and hidden as possible. 

Scott came back into room, “Are we comfortable with you because you’re a witch? One of the members of our pack said we might be comfortable with you because you’re a witch.” 

“No,” Stiles stated firmly. “Neither I nor most of my family have ever felt comfortable around werewolves, especially Packs of the European dependencies. My ex-wife warned me this was werewolf territory,” Stiles paused there. “No, she specifically said this was Shungmanitou territory. She didn’t use United States to describe it.”

“Is that significant?” Derek asked. “Would that make a difference in how comfortable you were with us?”

“Maybe? She might have just not bothered to translate, she might be playing with my head, she might have meant something. I’m sure if I asked her about it, she’d just laugh her head off. My ex loves to do stuff like that. I’m almost certain she won’t be any help unless I’m in real danger, she loves hearing about me in ludicrous situations.”

Stiles paused when he heard multiple vehicles moving closer to the house, followed by the sound of doors slamming shut. Derek and Scott stood up, with Derek telling his children to go outside and play with the other children who Stiles could hear squealing and giggling outside. Derek kept the baby draped over his shoulder, but Stiles got that if a baby was sleeping it was definitely a good thing to let it remain sleeping as long as possible, especially when it was that small. 

“That was rather quick,” Stiles said. 

“They’ve been waiting for the call since last night when you got here,” Scott continued to grin at Stiles. 

“Er…” Stiles didn’t really have a reply to give to that. 

Adults started pouring into the house, and this was by far the largest Pack that Stiles had ever seen. He recognized the blonde waitress from the diner, and the Kitsune that still wore her police uniform. He was surprised to see a human, but she was also wearing a police uniform and in the company of the Sheriff. He did pause for a moment when the banshee walked in, it wasn’t common for one of the fae to align themselves with any of the shorter lived species. 

The banshee walked right up to him while the others sat down around the living room. 

“What court are you aligned with?” Stiles blurted out, too shocked at seeing her to remember that he didn’t always like knowing the answer to that question, but there was a possibility that if she was Unseelie he had a new suspect. 

The banshee frowned. “Court?”

That response floored Stiles. “You’re unaligned?”

“I’m sorry, what are you talking about?” the woman looked upset that she didn’t know what Stiles was talking about. 

Stiles found himself in an awkward situation, on top of the awkward situation he was already in. “I have to ask, because I’m curious as to who trained you. I don’t often see fae by themselves, or in a werewolf pack.”

“You’ve seen other banshees?” Scott asked, excited. 

Stiles blinked. “You’ve never met a Sidhe before?” he felt sympathy for the banshee immediately. “I can introduce you to several, I don’t know any banshees because they’re much more rare, but one of my sisters and one of her boyfriends are High Court Seelie, and one of my brothers is a Seelie pixie.” Stiles paused at the look of confusion on her face. “No, really, he sweats glitter, it’s a dead give-away that he’s a pixie.”

“There are actual Courts?” the Banshee asked. “And you know a pixie?”

Stiles winced, again realizing he was sharing information that normally torture wouldn’t even get out of him, but it was so difficult to fight the urge to share absolutely everything with this Pack. “This is so strange,” he muttered. 

“Strange why?” the Sheriff asked. 

“I never talk about my family to outsiders. Especially Packs, no offense but Packs always put me on the defensive and make my skin crawl,” Stiles admitted. “Maybe I identify with your pack because you have included so many different types of Supernatural?”

“It’s unheard of for an outsider to be so immediately comfortable with a Pack. I find it interesting that you have always been uncomfortable around other Packs as if you were a member of a different Pack, and treat this Pack as if it were your own, not to mention that this Pack is treating you as if you were ours,” Stiles noticed Derek blushed after the banshee had spoken, but he wasn’t sure why. 

They put the mystery aside for a moment to introduce the Pack and Stiles to each other. It was more than interesting to him that the werewolf Isaac chose to marry the human Allison, who was a hunter and in charge of the Argent clan as a teenager. Allison was a police officer and Isaac ran the local daycare center. He immediately liked Erica and Boyd, who both worked at his mother’s diner, and they promised Stiles if he didn’t order anything healthy the food was great. Kira was the police officer Kitsune, and Stiles resisted mentioning the gumiho that lived above the garage at his dad’s house. She was married to Scott, who worked as a veterinary assistant to the druid, Deaton. Lydia was the banshee and head of the mathematics department at the local University of California Beacon Hills, wife to the Mayor of Beacon Hills, former Deputy Parrish, a phoenix. Jackson was the Beacon Hills District Attorney, and his husband Danny was in charge of the city’s IT Department. They were both werewolves. 

 

Stiles was just about to confess to the Sheriff he didn’t actually know anything about his last name when a few of the Pack’s children came running into the house. “Daddy! There are big black birds in the tree and they won’t give us back our ball!” Derek’s oldest boy shouted. 

The baby on Derek’s shoulder started crying at the sudden loud noise, and Stiles groaned softly before standing up. “Sorry, that’s probably my kids,” he said as he made his way outside. “Let me tell them to go home and I’ll be right back.”

Stiles would say he was surprised when the entire Pack followed him outside, but he wasn’t. 

It didn’t take lead long to find the baby ravens holding hostage a baseball in the trees, and Stiles simply crossed his arms and stared up at them. He tapped his foot a few times before they flew down, small ripples of lightening surrounding them until their bodies grew to the size of very short six year old twins with their mother’s long thick hair pulled back into a single braid, her coloring, and Stiles’s face stamped across their features. They both had one of Stiles’s lighter colored eyes, Nik on the left and Tes on the right. 

“Hi daddy!” Tes exclaimed, still incredibly proud of herself for finding her father several thousand miles away from the reservation. 

Nik had the decency to not make eye contact with Stiles. He didn’t delight in obvious trouble like his sister, he was a lot more sneaky. 

“We’ve had this discussion before,” Stiles stated. 

“Mommy told our sister you were playing with mean old werewolves,” Tes stuck her tongue out at one of the nearest pups to her.

“Daddy is working, my offspring. You know you’re only supposed to come see me when I’m at my apartment in DC, remember our little discussion about how daddy can’t watch you when he’s chasing bad guys?”

“We’re here to watch you,” Nik explained. 

“How about no? You need to go home before your mother calls you home, California can’t handle that much rain.” Stiles smiled at his kids.

“Rain?” Lydia asked, “What are they?”

“My kids and their mother are Wakinyan, indigenous to this continent. They are Thunderbirds,” Stiles explained. 

“Why does that boy have long hair?” asked the red haired black boy wrapped around Boyd’s calf. 

Nik looked down at his feet, so Stiles immediately got to his knees and pulled Nik’s chin up. “Hey, never be ashamed of your people and their traditions, even when they are different, okay? Your hair is just a symbol of your connection to your ancestors and your past, just like grandpa Tokala’s, right? It is part of what makes you beautiful, so just answer his question so he understands, okay?”

Nik nodded his head, but still looked at the ground. Tes grabbed his hand and ignored the question entirely. “Why are you playing with werewolves, daddy? Mommy said werewolves were dangerous and we aren’t to play with them unless we’re properly supervised.”

“We’re not dangerous!” the child clinging to Boyd’s leg protested. 

“Mommy doesn’t want you to play with wolves, true, not until you can control your transformations. Speaking of which, you are supposed to be in Pine Ridge, not in California. Do you want to tell me how that happened?” 

“See, what had happened was…” Tes started to explain. 

Stiles knew his daughter’s tells like the back of his hand. “Without lying, please.”

“Nascha said you were in danger, and Fools Crow said you were performing a Hembleycha, so we wanted to make sure you’re okay and to prepare food when you’re done,” Nik blurted out, much more familiar with honesty than his sister. 

Stiles frowned. “Why would the Medicine Man think I was doing a vision quest?” Stiles asked. 

“He said it was time for you to find yourself,” Tes piped up.

Stiles rubbed his hand over his hair, and glanced at the Pack surrounding him. “I’ll come do Hembleycha when I’m finished with this case. Now it’s time for y’all to get home before your mom knows you’re gone.”

Nik looked guilty, but Tes looked proud of herself. This was usual behavior for them. “Good-bye wolf friends! Don’t be mean to my daddy!” Tes blew them kisses, and then looked at Stiles expectantly until he leaned down so she and Nik could kiss him.

They transformed, only a little sloppy with their electricity and lightening this time, and flew into the gray clouds above them into the low rumbling of thunder that would get them home in three or four minutes. 

“Sorry about that, I thought it would take longer for them to find me this time. Their older sister took forever to learn how to travel with light, so their mom and I weren’t prepared for them to move around this early,” Stiles shrugged. 

“Your children are…” Lydia apparently couldn’t finish that sentence. 

“Thunderbirds… Wakinyan, is the Lakota word for it. I have learned a lot about them, now that I was married to one and my ex’s father helped raise me, but it’s genetic and tied up in a lot of their religion. Kind of comparable to the Christian idea of angels, and a large part of why North America doesn’t have the vampire problem the rest of the world has, natural enemies and all.” Stiles winced as he realized he had just done another information dump on the Pack. “I don’t know why I keep telling you these things.”

“If you were raised by your ex’s father, where was your family?” the Sheriff asked. 

Stiles stared at the Sheriff, who had just ran a hand through his own hair in a gesture that Stiles recognized himself doing when he was trying to figure something out himself. 

“The only family I’ve ever known are the Choi-Kwon family. They raised a lot of kids who couldn’t be put into regular foster families for obvious reasons,” Stiles didn’t really like explaining he couldn’t remember almost half of his life to people 

“Before them,” the Sheriff persisted, “your last name, I don’t have any family in this country, but I sure as hell think my relatives in Poland would have informed me that there was a Stilinski child running around with no family.”

Stiles sighed. “They found me in a warehouse in Memphis, Tennessee. They had to send in Wink Choi, my foster sister, to get me out because she isn’t easily affected by magic, and I apparently kept fighting everyone else off. I don’t remember that, or anything before that. My foster dad said he did call you and a professor in Chicago who have the same last name, which was written on a school paper in my pocket, but neither of you were missing any kids so Jiyong and his boyfriend just gave me a room in their mansion and declared themselves my dads.” 

“I don’t remember a call like that,” the Sheriff said. 

“Jiyong Kwon is the most powerful wizard alive today, unless you count Baba Yaga, who is retired for the most part. If he thought it would protect me, he probably would have taken those memories from you. I could always ask him.”

The discussion was set aside as another car pulled up in the driveway. Derek’s younger children raced to his legs while the older kids casually walked into the backyard. A pretty woman got out of the car, smiling widely at the Pack. Stiles noticed that Derek and Scott were the only ones who smiled back. 

“Derek, I didn’t know we were having a Pack meeting, I would have seen if I could have gotten out of work earlier. You know my planning period is the last one of the day,” the woman walked over to them with a briefcase. She looked pretty and friendly, but for some reason the spot on Stiles’s neck started hurting really badly again. 

“Jennifer, I’m glad you’re home,” Derek smiled at the woman Stiles assumed was the man’s wife. For some reason her presence made Stiles feel slightly queasy.

Jennifer walked into Derek’s arms and kissed his cheek, ignoring her children. She smiled at the Pack, and Stiles was sure that it was a fake smile for some reason. Then her eyes landed on Stiles, and her entire body went very, very still. She glanced again at Derek, who was still smiling at her with slightly dazed eyes, and then back at Stiles. “What are you doing here?”

Stiles found it interesting she didn’t ask who he was. He kept looking at her because her response to his presence was abnormal. 

“Special Agent Stilinski is here on a case, he is on loan from the FBI,” the Sheriff stated with almost no emotion in his voice. 

“Oh,” Jennifer said, “that’s nice.”

Stiles didn’t say anything, but continued to watch her.

“I’m going to go start on grading these papers, sweetheart, you promised meatloaf for dinner?”

Derek nodded happily, almost as if he were in awe of the woman. She still didn’t acknowledge the presence of the children, who didn’t react to her presence at all. Stiles could tell that the woman was human, but there was something just off about her.

“I need to head back to the station,” Stiles said. 

“I’ll take you,” Kira said. “It’s time for my shift anyway.”

Stiles nodded, and after he said goodbye, left with the kitsune. 

He told her about the gumiho that lived above his dad’s garage on the way to the station.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to post. I had to run to New Orleans for some friends, and then other things kept happening. I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter, but I'm not mad at it anymore. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy it!

The phone was always an inconvenient way to speak with Stiles’s foster father, the man’s power caused a low hum in the background and small bursts of static to pop during the most important parts of the conversation. Stiles called him anyway. 

“Do you remember calling the Sheriff of Beacon County with the same last name as me when you found me?” Stiles asked. 

Jiyong said yes, although it was really staticky.

“Did you happen to take that memory away from him?” Stiles asked. 

“No, he’s in… enforcement, I didn’t see a reason for it. I left Seunghyun’s contact… formation with… if he found any leads on your case. He was… concerned about you, said he would call his… in Poland, especially since you were fluent in Polish,” Jiyong sounded concerned, and his Southern accent got stronger. It was comforting, especially since Stiles couldn’t help but still be bothered after meeting Derek Hale’s wife. 

“Okay that’s what I wanted to know,” Stiles bit his bottom lip. This was not good news.

“Does this have something to do with the case you’re working on?” Jiyong asked. 

“Yes,” Stiles said. 

“Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Any one of us will come,” Jiyong said, sounding worried.

Stiles smiled. “I know, but except for some details, I have an idea of what’s going on. I just have to prove it.”

The Sheriff, who was driving to the station, looked at Stiles with some concern when he hung up the phone. “You think you have an idea of what is going on?”

“A little,” Stiles said. “I don’t have a suspect, but I’m pretty sure the point of the homicides is a memory spell of some sort. And I think it has happened here before. And I think I used to live here,” Stiles looked out the window as they passed through Main St.

“You think we’re related then?” The Sheriff wasn’t really asking, but it sounded like he wanted Stiles to say it out loud. 

“You have to be an uncle or something,” Stiles was afraid to say father, because if his father’s memories were ripped away from him like Stiles’s memories of himself, he wouldn’t be able to think logically and logic was his only weapon here, “because otherwise why would the spell make you forget the phone call?”

The Sheriff was silent the rest of the way to the station, and when they got there Stiles immediately buried himself in the notes and interviews the other agents had put together. 

It wasn’t long before Stiles realized the station had become eerily quiet. Stiles looked up to see everyone staring at a man towards the entrance of the building, standing silently with his arms crossed over his chest. He had thick waist-length straight black hair, black eyes framed with black lashes, and smooth copper skin. He wore a fuzzy blue sweater and worn blue jeans, but he was barefoot. 

“Uncle Tokala?” Stiles asked. 

The stern look on his Uncle’s face was wiped away with a grin that lit up the room. “How is my favorite son-in-law?” Tokala asked. 

“Oh my God, like our family isn’t Southern enough. All you’re going to do by calling me that is reinforce some stereotypes,” Stiles rolled his eyes and hugged the man around his shoulders. “If you’re looking for your grandchildren, I sent them home a while ago.”

“No, you’ve been in contact with three family members, and Fools Crow said it was time for Hembleycha. This is why I am here.”

Stiles nodded, glancing around at everyone staring. “I guess we should take a walk,” he said. The vision quest of Tokala’s people always made him sick, and since the ceremony was still outlawed by the Federal Government, Stiles figured the best place to discuss the particulars anywhere but the police station. They might not be aware it was illegal in California, but he was pretty sure they’d still find a way to arrest his uncle if they could. Native Americans were arrested more than any other ethnic groups in the United States. That was a situation that could get ugly, quickly. 

Tokala waited until they had walked away together before he spoke. “I saw an old tree that would be a good place for the ceremony.”

“This is really not a good time. There’s a memory spell over this town…”

Tokala nodded. “White magic. It loses power away from its base. This land has its own magic, white people like to forget the earth here still speaks.”

Stiles paused. “I think this is where I came from, uncle.”

“A vision quest will heal your spirit. It might take a while, but you will know in a few days. If a white witch caused this, it would have damaged your spirit tremendously.” Tokala led Stiles into the forest.

Stiles knew that Tokala didn’t mean white as in skin color. To the Lakota people, colors held different meanings, and white was the color of snow, of cold, of death. 

Tokala walked in silence for a long time. He led Stiles into a clearing, where sat the remains of a very large oak tree. He gestured for Stiles to follow him, and opened a door to lead him to a cellar beneath the tree. The atmosphere was dank with the scent of rot, and Stiles knew this vision quest was not going to be in any way comfortable. 

Tokala had already warmed the place with a fire, burning sage and sweet grass. Stiles made a face at the pot he knew held the cactus flower he would ingest. Peyote was not his favorite thing.

Tokala didn’t say a word, but at that point in their relationship it really wasn’t necessary. He tipped a sea shell filled with what Stiles equated with slime towards Stiles, who took a deep breath and tried to clear all the frustration and confusion and concentrate on his uncle’s presence. The thunderbird had a long history of leading the Lakota to peace and safety, and Stiles never liked the affect peyote had on him, but he knew attitude going into the vision would affect the outcome more than anything else. 

It started as any peyote trip starts, increased visual awareness, the steady beat of Tokala’s drum giving his brain a rhythm to concentrate on, the smell of sage from the fire for protection. The colors in the objects around him lost their subtlety, until Stiles felt the need to trace them with a box of Crayola crayons, panicking slightly at the thought there weren’t enough browns to get it exactly right. 

Tokala’s soft singing brought back memories that Stiles knew weren’t all his own. Children played in the cellar, their long black hair tied with beads, feathers, and brightly colored threads. They wore funny hats with wide brims, and Stiles tried to name the nation they belonged to in his head. Salish maybe? Was he too far south for Salish? The tree was happy with their presence, protective of the children, pleased with their respect as they decorated its roots with dyed porcupine quills and broken sea shells and bird feathers. 

Stiles blinked, and the scene changed. It was dark, too dark to see the people huddled in the roots of the tree. They might not have been people, their images blurred as the tree called wild animals for protection. Stiles heard the shuffling of a bear outside, the trod of wolves, and in the distance, the pungent smell of people, unwashed and angry, assaulted his nose. 

The next blink led him to a boy holding the body of a dying girl. The tree was sad, knowing the girl was in pain and the boy had no other choice than to kill her, make her stop hurting. Stiles gasped when the boy finally did kill her, his eyes glowing a bright blue, his pain escaping his lips as he threw his head back even as the look of relief flashed across the girl’s face.

You know this story, Stiles thought he heard someone say, and he was a little worried it was the tree.

More images, the Sheriff and two other adults tied up there, and Stiles saw himself, younger, entering the cellar with a baseball bat.

That made him have to lie down, and at that point he could no longer hear Tokala’s drum and voice. 

His body felt full, he could smell pine and carbon, his arms stretched over his head, his mouth moving in ‘I love yous’ as a man surged over him, vast and hypnotic as the sea. Clean sweat, his body invaded, his heart swelling, Stiles only wanted to wrap his legs around the man’s torso, urge him more tightly inside the welcoming heat of his own body. The man whispered his name, whispered the word mate in his ear, bit harshly into the skin between his neck and shoulder, and Stiles climaxed. 

The tree wept, sticky sap leaking from its ruined trunk.

Stiles felt the hand of the man clasping his own, you’re safe here, I’ll be back, please don’t leave. I love you more than life itself. 

A woman. Stiles felt nothing but terror. She was screaming at him, and magic danced around her, obscuring her with bright white light. 

The tree forced him out of the vision in an effort to protect him. Stiles stared at his uncle, who stared back before nodding and handed him a piece of fruit. “My job here is finished. The rest is for you to figure out,” Tokala’s deep voice was strong and certain. 

“Uncle…”

“You will always be a member of our family, nephew, but there is family here for you also. Having more family does not mean you are disloyal or wrong for wanting more. We will always be your tribe,” Tokala gave him an ironic smile, “but it is time to meet your band.”

Stiles understood what Tokala was saying: Tokala’s nation was Lakota, his tribe was Oglala, but his band was Hunkpathila. Tokala’s family name was Se Hapa. There were a million ways people were connected with each other, and the celebration of that connectedness was something his father, Jiyong Kwon, excelled at. 

Stiles was his father’s son, if not genetically than definitely spiritually. Family could mean one hundred people, but a healthy family always had room for more.

He just might have a few more fathers than other people, as the image of the Sheriff from his vision passed through his memory again. 

He was not disloyal for wanting that connection, and he needed to stop worrying about that if he wanted to solve this case. It was a concern he didn’t even know he had, and he was grateful his uncle addressed it before he even knew about it. 

They walked out into the fading sunlight together. “You know any one of us will be there the moment you ask,” Tokala said. 

Stiles nodded. 

“You question yourself when you know the answers. I strongly suggest you call the one person in your family that terrifies your enemy.”

Stiles nodded again. 

“You are fighting white magic. What are white magic users terrified of?”

Stiles grinned. “They have a Sidhe here, but she is untrained and ignorant of her power.”

Tokala grinned back at him. “Too bad you don’t know any fully trained Sidhe who you trust with your life.”

“I’ll call her,” Stiles stated. 

Tokala kissed his forehead, and then turned into what Stiles called his crow tornado, the birds slowly circling skyward in a low rumble of thunder and a few flashes of lightening. Stiles waved, knowing his uncle could see him, before turning back to the huge stump of the tree. He smiled at the tiny sapling that had sprouted in the middle of it. Tokala’s type of magic was bringing it back to life to protect the people once again. 

It wouldn’t be long until the tree was full grown, especially since Stiles was bringing his older sister here in a matter of hours. 

Before he called upon the chaos his sister’s presence would surely inspire, and the desperate prayer he would entreat on all the benevolent spirits and gods he could think of that her boyfriends would not follow her, Stiles wanted to analyze his visions the tree had given him.

The children were the tree’s way of showing him it loved its people, that it never meant a single person harm. Stiles didn’t know why that was important to the tree, only that it was for whatever reason. Maybe the tree had been blamed for some great sin, or maybe its power had been raped from it. 

The boy holding the dying girl. The tree was upset about that. The boy looked familiar, like one of Derek Hale’s sons, but the memory tasted older. Stiles wondered if it was a younger Derek that he saw, but that wasn’t a question he could easily ask the werewolf as an officer of the law. Murder didn’t have a limitations statute, so whatever Stiles found out he would be bound by law to do something about.

The Sheriff being bound in the cellar, with the two other adults. Stiles remembered coming in with the bat. He not only had the tree to thank for reminding him, he also remembered himself that he had done that. Tokala must have been correct, that the European magic that had caused the memory spell was not as strong as the magic tied to this continent. Tokala’s magic was bringing back Stiles’s memories, now that he was in a location to trigger them.

The next memory, of Stiles and the man making love. It made Stiles hot just to think about it. He tugged a little at the collar of his work shirt, unbuttoned the top button, wiped his brow and concentrated on willing his semi away. He was not a very sexual person. The brief marriage he shared with Mary, Jr. was his only sexual experience that he could remember. Being with a man was not anathema to him, his adopted dad had been with his boyfriend since they had been fifteen or so, but it hadn’t been something that he had given much consideration to. And he wanted that to be more than a memory. The man whispered mate to him. It could have been any kind of supernatural person, but given the location he was in Stiles would put good money on the probability that he was mated to a werewolf.

He kind of wanted it to be Derek Hale, but given that the man was married to a woman with what seemed like 86 children, he didn’t think that it was possible. But oh, sticking Derek’s head on the memory of that man fucking him, slow and sweet and deep, that did nothing to help Stiles’s dick get soft for the long walk back to the station. He had to stick his hand down his pants to readjust, tuck the end of of his cock into the elastic band of his boxer briefs, quickly swipe a spit slicked thumb across the head before he reluctantly pulled his hand out of his pants and started walking. 

And honestly, he liked being by himself, but it would be nice if he had someone of his own to annoy for the rest of his life, like all his brothers and sisters did.

It wasn’t until he was walking that he remembered the terror of the woman and the bright white light around her. He stopped walking for a moment, shocked at the terror her memory produced. 

He might not want his sister’s chaos, but he sure as Hell wanted her presence and the feeling of safety she provided. 

He was shocked that his hand was trembling when he reached into his pocket for his phone. 

It didn’t even ring on his end before she picked it up. “About time, asshole,” she greeted him with the words of love shared by siblings everywhere. 

“Wink,” he started to say. 

She was already interrupting him.“I’m already on my way. I got on the plane as soon as Uncle Tokala left.”

“Seriously? I swear he only left me ten minutes ago…”

“Try three hours, dickhead.” Wink’s voice held ice in it, but underneath there was a thick layer of concern.

“No,” Stiles started to say. Missing time was never an indication of anything good. Had he passed out after Tokala left and not realized it?

“If you just lost three hours and didn’t realize it, I should have been there days ago. Now, I’ve already dismissed the other agents on your case, they don’t have any reason to know who I am. Stay away from sharp objects until I get there, okay?”

“I hate you,” Stiles said fondly. 

“You too, asswipe,” Wink said cheerfully before hanging up on him.

So he lost three hours. So his insane high court Sidhe CIA sister was on her way to help him deal with a Darach and a Pack of Wolves. So his team had been dismissed. So he might be in the town where he grew up and had a biological father and had almost no memory of at all. So he might be feeling some emotions about a wolf who was married to a woman and had a mini pack of werewolves for offspring. That didn’t mean anything was worth panicking over. Nothing at all.


End file.
